Gemotions

The realtor, bless her heart, kept talking. Something about “historical charm” and “unique provenance.” But the words were just noise to Eleanor. The police tape, the pictures of the crime scene – the whole damn file – were sitting on her kitchen table. She’d found it tucked inside a dusty drawer, a relic of the house’s past. Her gut clenched. "It's all in the past," she said, cutting off the realtor mid-sentence.

The agent, unfazed, launched into a spiel about the "fantastic investment opportunity." Eleanor crossed her arms. This wasn't about money. It was about *her* space, *her* life. And the idea of ghosts, or bad vibes, or whatever the hell you called it, clinging to her freshly painted walls? Unacceptable. She'd bought the house to get away from things, to start fresh.

"I need to think," Eleanor finally said, her voice tight. The realtor’s smile faltered. As soon as the woman was gone, Eleanor marched to the table. She opened the file again, the grainy photos staring back. She slammed it shut. Then, without a second thought, she locked it back in the drawer. The past stayed buried.